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Who still remembers that special place
Where we always wound up, not often planned?--
The old building back lot with no certain face,
Weeds wild, unkept, brazen and crammed;
Our imaginations, pure and uncouth,
Forced forward, exposed in a dark alley,
Lit over treasures and boxes and loot
Which we-- and only we-- lifted and carried.
Remember it now? All that we bared?
How we ricocheted that Spaldine round
The foul, vacant apartment building stair,
Or hung out the window shouting out loud
The sounds and the words from a fast-fading voice.
How it echoes still, the years of withered choice!
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